It Must Be My Lucky Day

I don't eat oysters.

You can count on one hand the number of oysters I've eaten in my life and still have an extra digit or two free. Not liking something is an anomaly for Dillypoo. I'm not a fussy eater (I didn't end up at WW by saying "no" to food). My list of inedibles is short: okra, beets, breakfast sausage and oysters. (I do make exceptions for pickled okra and pickled beets. I've yet to meet a pickle I didn't like.)

But today I ate an oyster. Some good friends took me to one of the better restaurants in town for lunch and they ordered oysters Rockefeller. Not wanting to be rude or seem uncultured for a city girl, I ate one:

I have to admit that it was pretty tasty. Oysters Rockefeller is kind of the oyster equivalent of drowning broccoli in ranch dressing. The cheese and spinach and other gooey fabulousness completely hid the slimy goober buried underneath. If I hadn't promised myself to a bowl of cream of mushroom soup, I might have eaten another.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, this was maybe my third or fourth oyster EVER. So when I crunched on something I thought it was a piece of shell.

It wasn't. It was this:

A teeny, weeny pearl! If I'd been trying to gag down a non-oyster Rockerfeller I most certainly would've swallowed it.

I'm not sure what to do with my little treasure. It's really small:

I may make a velvet lined shadow box for it and hang it on my wall to commemorate my last oyster.

Because what are the odds that I would find a pearl in one of the three or four oysters I've ever encountered?

And my luck continued! When I got home this evening I saw this:

The Professor made the bed!!!

I'm a very lucky girl.